What the eye wants to see is curves.Lines that come around to meet each other.What the mind wants to feel is closure.The sense that things conclude, come round, reach fulfillment.What the ear wants to hear is rhythm, a pattern in timeto pace its passing and provide assurance of return.With each beat we return, coming back to ourselves, back to here, this space.

we are colors fading in the sun on tattered fabricwe are bones bleaching in the sand next to old rockswe are buzzards sailing silently in high clear blue naked airwe are the waters soaking an infinity of interbranching roots while wandering aimlessly in search of stillnesswe are the ancient sun, burning its life away in the throat of the skywe are an old piece of string, frayed and coming undone,black rocks, washed with salt for ten million years

When I was alone at the edge of the worldI listened to the cries of birds sailing out far beyond the rim.I gazed at the stars implanted in their strange geometries,Out of reach.

Now I have listened to the songs of scientists,Playing their lines and graphs like lute-strings,Making good guesses with strange methods,Phrasing their questions in terms my dreaming eyes would never have conceived.

Then again the old mystery swamps me;Amid the wreckage of torn charts and battered sails,All destinations suspended,What I cannot disbelieve yet turns to mist before my eyes.

Not a pity, not a prayer,Not a regret, not a sigh,Not a hope,Not a request for intercession,Not a plea for benediction,Not a memory,Not a response,Not an accident,Not a prodigy,Not this, not that,Then what?Just a sterilized brainJust a scalded tongueJust a numb fingertipJust an arrow in flightJust an empty jugJust a chair without a backrestJust a car without nostrilsJust a girlfriend without bitternessJust an ocean without deadJust a butterfly floating over the edge of the cliff.

Whoa, Earth, I want to dismount,Said the Buddhaand got off,Letting the orb resume its spinning,Humanity continue sinning,Now he's standing there in spaceAn azure smile upon his faceWhich is to sayWithout a trace.

Spring is a sure thing now, and winter's in a panic, pulling out all the stops like a cop hoping for a suspect, whipping up a river of air that buffets everything and sprays chilly droplets against the windows like buckshot.Over this rough conduct preside impassive clouds whose gray faces do not even pass judgment.The sun like a friendly accomplice trying to lend a hand probes with slender knives but can't even slip an edge of daylight through the stuck casement of dawn.The woods struggle on in the gloom trying to pull off the job.Individual trees are only as sure of staying in their place as their trunks and roots are firm.They cross their branches and hope for the best.

Easy to lose your foothold in this world, and never get it back.So when we hear strong winds blow and big branches creaking,It sets us to thinking.

A wind can fell a human as easy as a tree.A person's roots aren't so deep.And like a tree, when a person goes down for real,We others can't help them up.

Do trees mourn fallen brethren who go down with a crash?Do they think, "There go I when the next wind blows," or "Life is short, make sugar now?"

Probably not, and still,sap is flowing,and after the difficult wind,Spring comes for every one still standing.

Well it's another perfect day in the neighborhood With perfect people everywhere Painting picket fences and makin' double lattes, Workin' for the CIA.

There's not a whole lotta places a guy can go To find employment and security. The whole private sector is just a show, A cover for the CIA.

We come in all shapes and sizes Don't you know, Mohamedan, Christian and Jew, Buddhist and Taoist even some of us Believe in Sai Baba, too But under the skin We're all blacker than sin Workin' for the CIA.

Yeah the money's good here And it spends real fine Printed by the CIA, And there's plenty of jobs in interrogation Workin' for the CIA, Ya get to know your neighbors, Ya get to know the truth About a whole lot of things We know about you, Yeah there's a whole lotta perks With a company spot, Workin' for the CIA.

See that guy over there In the cycle shop, And that bum smokin' crack at the old bus stop, That postal employee cleanin' out the box, All workin' for the CIA.

It's just another perfect day In the neighborhood, Developed by the CIA. And if you're not plugged in It might not be so good, I mean with the CIA. So we'll be by again and see just what you think, And remember it's just CIA. CIA.